


The Choice

by NorroenDyrd



Series: It's O/K! [4]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Choices, Difficult Decisions, F/M, Fatherhood, Forbidden Love, Moral Dilemmas, Moral Lessons, Pregnancy, Thalmor, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-30
Updated: 2016-01-30
Packaged: 2018-05-17 05:20:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5855650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorroenDyrd/pseuds/NorroenDyrd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Justiciar Commander Ondolemar has been involved with the Dragonborn for a while. Concerned that the affair might come into light if his Redguard paramour becomes pregnant, he secretly seeks out Bothela at Hag's Cure to request a potion that would make her sterile.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Choice

The door clanks faintly behind him, cutting off the breath of a cool mountain breeze which is dancing playfully through the streets outside, carrying with it a sprinkle of finest diamond dust scattered by the cascading waterfalls. The contrast between that crisp, invigorating freshness, and the dense, musty air inside the shop he has entered, is so strong that it almost makes him stagger.  
  
Pulling his long black cloak protectively around him, he steps forward, starting slightly as his bowed head brushes against a bunch of dried herbs hanging from the ceiling - and narrows his eyes so they can adjust to the murk. They glint like jade and amber beneath his lowered hood, as their intent, burning gaze glides along the rows of cobwebbed shelves that surround him, encircling him like a many-tiered wooden cage. Each of these shelves is bending in underneath the weight of bottles and phials and beakers and glass tubes of all sizes; most of them are grey with a fine layer of dust, so he cannot make out their contents - but here and there, he catches a glimpse of more or less definite shapes, some floating in bubbling liquids and some merely suspended in mid-air. Bobbing up and down, knocking against the glass.  
  
A daedra heart, still pulsing with a faint red glow. A gnarled, bloated root, looking a little like a hunchbacked little man with thick, bandy legs and frail arms. An eye of a sabre cat, still rounded in the terror that overcomes any living creature when it realizes it is about to die - the terror he has witnessed more often than he cares to remember. A shrivelled-up head of what looks like a vampire bat, with a flattened, upturned nose and gigantic ears, crisscrossed by a tangled net of veins. A long forked tongue of some reptile. A swarm of bees, circling round and round inside its new, see-through beehive...  
  
There is more - but before his gaze wanders too far away, something large and dark stirs behind the counter. No - he blinks a couple of times - not something. Someone. A wiry, wild-haired old Reachwoman with piercing, beady eyes, bloodshot from spending so much time in the semi-darkness - so that their raw, pink whites almost seem darker than the irises. There is hardly an inch of the skin on her face that is not covered with twisting, intertwining markings, some old and faded, and other renewed with recent injections of brownish ink. Like him, she is clad in black - only her robe is no match for his superior disguise; it is old and frayed along the hems of the sleeves, and the numberless experiments have left it so greased and splattered that in many places, the pure, noble colour has turned into a sickly mush of grey, green and even purple.  
  
Scraping the wood of the counter with her long, hard, claw-like nails, she leans forward, peering at him through overhanging strands of greasy hair, and caws,   
  
'Well now... My apprentice will be mighty upset when she finds out that such a pretty boy came along while she was away...'  
  
His heart skips a beat, and a sharp pang of pain pierces the left side of his chest. Has... has the disguise failed? Can she see his face? He cannot allow that! If she babbles - if someone finds out where he has been... he will be ruined!  
  
Wincing slightly, he forces his benumbed fingers into motion, cupping them round a glowing orb of shock magic - tiny so far, but ready to swell up at the slightest provocation and to set loose a thrashing, hissing, stinging, blindingly white serpent.  
  
The old hag chuckles.  
  
'No need to be alarmed. I do not know, or care, who you are - not in the sense that crossed your mind, anyway. I can only tell from your height and bearing that you are an elf. No big surprise here; plenty of your kind coming and going ever since my people lost their kingdom to the Bear. And you elves are all such pretty, pretty boys, aren't you?'  
  
Slowly, reluctantly, he extinguishes his spell - but his pose does not grow any less tense. She cocks her head to one side, like a crow that has set its eye on something shiny, and adds,  
  
'But you did not come her to listen to an old woman babble. You came here to trade. Tell me - what do you lack, pretty boy? Hmm? What do you lack? Old Bothela has plenty of remedies that can satisfy many, many wants'.  
  
He swallows a hard, painful lump in his throat. Come on - why does that stupid tongue insist on sticking to the roof of his mouth? He needs to get this over with.  
  
'I require a potion,' he says, at long last. His voice comes out hoarse and unnatural, almost as crow-like as the hag's. All for the better, he tells himself. This way, she will never recognize him, should they meet again under different circumstances.  
  
She clicks her tongue in mock reproach.  
  
'Oh, come now, pretty boy - you do realize that potions are what I mostly deal in, right? You have to be more specific than that'.  
  
His jaw tightens. This manner of hers is utterly unacceptable; he is not used to being patronized by humans! But... The circumstances don't really leave him any choice. It is in the hag's power to help him, so he has to contain himself and play by her rules - for as long as his patience will last.  
  
'It's not... not exactly for me...' the words do not come easy; he has to pull them out, inch by inch, as though extracting an arrowtip from a wound. 'It's for someone I know...' he has to pause and catch his breath, because the wild thumping of his heart grows too loud for him to hear his own voice. 'A woman. I need something that will... that will keep her... keep her from...'  
  
'From having children?' the hag finishes the sentence for him, with a meaningful nod. 'I can whip something up - but I need to see your gold first. To make sure that all the toil and trouble does not go to waste'.  
  
Stumbling like a sleepwalker, he comes up to the counter and lays down a small, tightly packed coinpurse. The hag thrusts her hand inside, fishes out one coin and tries it against her teeth; smirking in satisfaction, she set it down and beckons him to follow her to her alchemy apparatus, which stands in a small niche further inside the shop, enveloped in an eerie green glow. He obeys mechanically, still feeling as if he had been thrust, head-first, into a stream of icy water. It is only when the hag sweeps up a few bowls of some suspicious-looking ingredients and begins to grind them together in a mortar, that he manages to shake off his stunned state.  
  
'How... How did you know?' he asks faintly, watching the rhythmic movements of the hag's hands - taking a pinch of this and a grain of that, adding it the mixture, together with a drop or two of hissing solvent, and stirring, stirring, moving the mortar in slow, hypnotic circles...  
  
She does not even deign to look up from her work.  
  
'It really obvious, pretty boy,' she says with a condescending snort. The uneven green light distorts her features, and it seems to him that she is leering, like a predator playing with prey before putting it out of its misery.  
  
'I already told you I guessed you are an elf; and trust me, you are not the first one of your kin who longs to have some fun with a human but does not wish to take any risks. The forbidden fruit is sweet - but too much sweetness might give you a toothache, you know what I mean? Can't have your little plaything marring your - what was that word your people love so much - superior bloodline with her offspring, now can you?'  
  
For a few seconds, he gropes frantically through the air for something to hold on to - because the room has started spinning round him. Dear gods... The hag has voiced his own thoughts - the ones he has been trying to push deep, deep down, into the darkest, furthest recesses of his mind, pretending that they are not there. Telling himself that he is doing this for her - for Kiara. That, if she were to birth his child, there would almost certainly be some sort of evidence that it was not a full-blooded Redguard - which would lead to the mother becoming an outcast, due to the rift between their two peoples. That this is for her own good.  
  
He has been lying to himself. He is not doing this for her - he is doing this for himself. Because, after all they have been through together, he is still too concerned about his reputation. He is still too afraid of the Thalmor's wrath. Too afraid that, if his secret affair with a human - a human who dares speak out against the Dominion! - is discovered, the system that he once faithfully served will turn against him, and its unstoppable, merciless wheels will crush him, grind him into dust. And he cannot endanger himself like this - he cannot put his life on the line because... because of a plaything.  
  
A plaything... Is that all Kiara has been to him? A little pet to quench his lust whenever he so wishes? Pleasant, of course; wonderful company; attractive, in that odd way of hers - but at the end of the day, so very, very expendable.  
  
Through the prickly, hazy film that suddenly obscures his vision, he pictures her face. Smooth skin the colour of those delectable Khajiiti sweetmeats. Flyaway raven hair, which has a way of trapping the golden rays of the sun - like a dream-catcher is supposed to trap dreams. Full, irresistibly kissable lips, always parted in a smile; for she firmly believes that a smile can chase away any dark clouds gathering on the horizon; that it can be the source of strength even when your heart comes too close to breaking. And those eyes - brightly, richly blue against her dark skin, with the distant tides of Stros M'Kai still lapping against the shore within their depths. Many a time, these eyes have looked upon him, so open and sincere and caring; many a time, they have seen the light within his heart when he himself refused to believe that it was still burning.  
  
'I am an officer of the Thalmor,' he would often tell her as they lay side by side, blissfully exhausted after a long night and slowly drifting off to sleep. 'You are working with the Blades; possibly, Stormcloaks, too. What makes you think that one day, I will not remember my duties and act accordingly?'  
  
'I trust you,' she would reply, wrapping her arm round his chest and rubbing her face against his shoulder. 'I know that there is more to you than a walking, talking robe'.  
  
And now, it seems, he is about to betray that trust. He is about to act like any proper superior mer would. To get rid of any potential risks. So he can, one day, fulfill his obligation to the Dominion and merge his own refined bloodline with that of some suitable pure-bred Altmeri woman of high social standing...  
  
And as his wayward thoughts drift toward this subject, he suddenly - both to his own blood-curdling horror and ecstatic joy - realizes that he wishes to do no such thing. Damn the Dominion and its demands to Oblivion. No meric woman, not even if Auri-El himself descended to this wretched mortal plane and led her up to him by the hand, would ever be able to replace his Kiara. And no new family line he could possibly start, no matter how pure, would truly be his own if he did not share it with the one person that had made him believe that there was more to him than a gilded robe and a set of rules to follow. The one person that had reminded him what laughter felt like. The one person that he loved. That he loves. And will love, until he draws his last breath.  
  
In the meanwhile, the hag has finished brewing her concoction. Breathing in its swirling fumes through her flaring, twitching nostrils, she pours it into a phial of dark-green glass and, giving the vessel a small shake, hands it to her dazed customer.  
  
'There you go, pretty boy. Now all you have to do is slip this to your mistress - while bringing her breakfast in bed, perhaps? - and all your problems will be solved'.  
  
He draws a loud, shuddering breath, grinding his teeth, his whole body throbbing with lava-like rage.  
  
 _'She. Is. Not. My. Mistress!'_ he hisses - and, throwing his arm up into the air, smashes the phial against the stone floor.  
  
  
***  
  
  
Ondolemar jerks awake, his chest heaving and sticky with sweat. Kiara mumbles something sleepily - but does not open her eyes. Rolling over to his side, he brushes the hair off her forehead - even though she has cut it, this has not made it any less unruly - and kisses her gently. She smiles in her sleep and nestles cosily among the blankets. With one last look at her, he slips out of the bed and walks barefoot towards the half-open door, his soles plop-plop-plopping softly against the stone. As he enters the next room, he pauses for a moment on the threshold, and then begins to walk on tiptoe, taking great care to trip over any of the toys that are lying scattered across the floor. Really, it’s about time the boy learned to clean up after himself!  
  
Having maneuvered his way among wooden horses and stuffed cliff-racers, he reaches the tiny bed, where the child lies, one foot hanging off the edge, wavy black hair rippling all over the pillow. His lips twisting into what Kiara alone can recognize as a smile, Ondolemar sweeps the boy up into his arms and presses him against his chest. This makes the little one wake up; with a small yawn, he tears open his eyes and looks questioningly as his father.   
  
Almond-shaped like an elf's, his eyes glow in the dark with the same shade of amber as Ondolemar's; but their irises are not green - they are blue; as blue as the sea washing over the southern reaches of Tamriel. Two colours joining one another. Two bloodlines merging into one - interwoven not out of the necessity to follow orders, but out of love.  
  
'Dad? What's up?' the boy asks thickly.  
  
'Nothing,' Ondolemar replies. 'I just wanted to look at you'.  
  
'Well, okay then...' the boy mutters through another yawn, 'How does that thing go... You... have the honour... of hugging me...'  
  
'And I am basking in it,' Ondolemar whispers, closing his eyes and listening to the joined beating of their two hearts. His and his son's.


End file.
